Destruction bound in a sphinx’s eyes,
implicit cries fructify my dream.
As the moon directs the bloody tides
the arbor and the grotto steam.
Sweetheart, these are Actaeon’s greaves
and there his severed antler lies.
And where the vivid hyacinth breathes
his bellows fecundate the light
with a hunter’s tender cruelty.
Seduced, reduced to misery,
his dogs cringe in the huntress’ path;
all unaware comes Actaeon to see
in white magnificent nudity
a goddess, startled in her bath.